


ebb and flow

by Heyriel



Series: ebb and flow [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Casual Sex, Cock Worship, Comeplay, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Hand Jobs, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier explores Witcher biology, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knotting, M/M, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Tender Sex, and wants to make him feel good, or is it???, seriously there is a ridiculous amount of come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyriel/pseuds/Heyriel
Summary: Like many of Geralt’s other unusual or animalistic features, the knot on his dick is a byproduct of the additional experimentation done on him during Witcher training. None of the other boys put through the full Trials of Dreams have survived and thus it stands to reason that Geralt is the only one with this particular mutation.It's not... popular with his usual partners, to say the least, but Jaskier begs to differ.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: ebb and flow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671550
Comments: 114
Kudos: 2295





	ebb and flow

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another one for the "Jaskier shows Geralt that he is loved and wanted" box -is it fluffy filth? Filthy fluff? Or both?
> 
> Alt. title: _Listen up monsterfuckers, Geralt has a knot._

Of course, Geralt has long learned to warn the people he sleeps with (aka prostitutes) about his, hm,  _ enhanced  _ physique before the clothes come off. He also knows to not ever,  _ ever  _ try to tie. Though it’s a hot fantasy, Geralt is not stupid or careless enough to risk having his partner panic when the reality of the situation sets in. A couple of the braver girls he’s met have certainly offered to indulge him, one even looked (and smelled) honestly interested, but if it goes tits up, the risk of severe injury is too great.

Thus far, holding up his fist to show them what kind of swelling he’s talking about has always been enough to dissuade them.

So the hardest part about brothel negotiations is usually the opposite; convincing the understandably weary women that no, he’s not gonna try to pop “it” into them without warning. Letting them keep a guarding hand on his cock just above the bulging tissue while he fucks them mostly helps to ease their minds. Geralt neither thinks about, nor considers mentioning, that if he wanted to take them by force, their fragile human wrists would simply be collateral damage.

What comes after the first glorious moment of cresting pleasure is similarly as awkward and bothersome though.

Geralt comes like a fucking horse -okay, not quite, but sometimes it sure feels that way when he pumps load after load of thick seed into his partner until he can see her belly swelling with it _ just so _ . It’s hot. Until the matron charges additional cleaning costs. (He already has to pay double the normal rate to make fucking a beast worth anyone’s while.)

If only his cock was quick about it. The knot takes anywhere from 5 to 20 minutes to go down, depending on various factors. Lucky for the girls, one of those is the pheromones his partners exude. The more stressed and obviously unhappy they are, the faster it will go down. Fun. Fucking. Times.

Geralt has learned to live with it, really. Even tense, rushed and impersonal, sex is sex; he can’t be picky. Needs to keep a clear head to do his job.

When he says that last bit to Jaskier however, the bard’s jaw drops in disbelief.

“ _ Excuse me. _ Can you repeat that? You can’t be  _ picky _ so you, what, resign yourself to a life of bad sex?” his voice is loud and utterly incredulous. Geralt shoots him a glare.

This morning they left Ban Glean and are now on their way south towards Hagge for a potential vampire infestation. There are no roads around these parts, so they set up camp on the first not-so-soggy little rise they found once the sun started setting. The weather is good and the forest quiet. Small mercies. The Livel river and its swamps and marshlands are normally teeming with drowners and bandits.

How they went from eating quietly to arguing about Geralt's preference for whorehouses over random hookups is a mystery -though the Witcher suspects it has something to do with a certain new  _ habit  _ the bard has picked up. That is, he’ll chat up ladies (and on the rare occasion men, too) and then ask Geralt if he wants to share. Which the Witcher does  _ not _ .

“But  _ why _ , Geralt.” the bard continues, hushed, “Look at you! You’re gorgeous. I understand the prejudices levelled at Witchers make it hard to find someone willing outside of a professional establishment… but I offered you that maid on a platter, darling! No additional work required!”

“She didn’t know what she was agreeing to.” Geralt says, stroking the fire.

“Well, then I apparently didn’t either. Care to enlighten me?”

“No.”

“Come on. Is this the usual Witcher self-flagellation or do you actually have something to hide? And embarrassing fetish perhaps? A small dick? -hm, no, no I take that back immediately.” Jaskier hums and licks his lips. Geralt feels the bards gaze slide down to the bulge between his thighs. He suppresses the urge to close his legs self-consciously. “There is definitely nothing small about your dick.”

The Witcher doesn’t reward that with a reply but stares resolutely into the flames. Silence stretches.

“Okay, alright. I’m sorry.” Jaskier breaks, at last, sounding honestly contrite. With a sigh he gets up, takes a few steps around the fire until he can plop down next to Geralt onto the thick fur of his bedroll. “If you’re not comfortable I won’t push anymore, yeah? Just… you deserve positive experiences. To enjoy yourself, you know? Sex shouldn’t be a chore.”

“Hm.”

A log shifts and sends sparks up into the air. The trees whisper in a soft breeze.

“It’s a mutation.”

“Hm. What kind of mutation?”

He’s explained it at least three-hundred times without batting an eyelash. Now, suddenly, it’s hard again, like the first time. Geralt knows Jaskier is pretty indiscriminate in his tastes, tumbling with men and women and those somewhere in-between alike. Geralt had never managed to give up the tiny speck of hope that maybe Witchers, even those with freakish dicks, were on the bard’s list of acceptable bedfellows as well. Still, it had always seemed safer not to try his luck, lest he found out the answer was a horrified  _ no _ . Well, the grace period is over.

He swallows a few times, searching for the well-practised words.

“There’s some additional tissue at the base of it. It swells when I come. Like a-”

“Like a wolf??”

“Jaskier…”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not laughing! That’s -uh, it doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No.”

“Oh, good... And does it really do the, you know, the locking thing? When you fuck someone?”

“It should. Never tried it.”

“Eh? What a shame!” Then, before the Witcher can process how to react to  _ that _ , “How big is it?”

Geralt snaps his head around to glare at the bard.

“I’m just curious!” he whines. Waits for an answer. When none is forthcoming, he tries again, “Come on, how big?”

The Witcher holds up his fist. Jaskier chokes on his spit.

“Sweet Melitele…”

If he hadn’t heard something suspiciously like awe in the bard’s voice, Geralt would not have dared to look in the human’s direction again. But he does. Jaskier’s face is slack with shock, eyes still fixed on Geralt's large hand. Then his gaze drops, almost comically slow, to Geralt’s crotch. This time the Witcher does press his legs together, caught off guard by the sudden hunger overtaking the handsome features of his companion.

Baby blue eyes snap up to amber.

“Can I see?”

Geralt sucks in a breath, mind going blank for a second. Over the woodsmoke of the fire, Jaskiers scent has spiked. Spicy and masculine, Geralt doesn’t have to look down to know that the human is in the process of getting hard, obviously turned on by the thought of Geralt’s knot.  _ What the hell. _

Unsettled by Geralt’s silence, Jaskier backpedals, “You don’t have to! I’m uh, making this weird. But I would. Really like to see. For research and-” 

“If you put this into a song I will kill you.”

“I know. Oh, believe me, I  _ know _ . And I very much value my life so these lips are sealed! Promise! Now, can I?”

The bardling seems about a second away from making actual grabbing motions towards the bulge in question and Geralt, kind of dazed by the sudden turn of events, yields to the insistent pleading. With a grunted “Fine.” and an eye-roll to prevent a more vulnerable expression from stealing onto his face, he gets up on his knees and starts loosening the laces of his trousers.

_ This is madness. _

Carefully Geralt pulls himself out of the reinforced leather cup. His cock is soft and barely a handful, the wrinkles of inflating tissue hidden by curls of white pubic hair and a wealth of velvety foreskin. Of course, the scrutiny placed upon it by Jaskiers piercing eyes is not helping boost its confidence at all.

“Well. That’s not very impressive”.

“Well, what the  _ fuck  _ did you expect.” Geralt snarls red-faced, moving to tuck himself back in and physically flee from this humiliating situation. A hand on his arm stops him.

“Don’t know, honestly.” the bard says lightly, “But with how much of a big deal you’ve been made about this, I was ready for anything from a fur-pouch to something like a live octopus -may I?”

Ignoring the Witcher’s agitated state, Jaskier has inserted himself into Geralt's space, the hand not on Geralt's arm hovering a barely respectful distance away from his exposed dick. The Witcher feels frozen, instinctively suspicious of the other man's intent but Jaskier’s tone and expression are kind, innocently curious despite his crude phrasing.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Geralt snorts in derision and hates the relief he feels at the simple reassurance. Carefully not meeting the bard’s eyes, he drops his own hand away, shuffles around a bit so they’re facing each other. The first touch of lute-calloused fingers on his flaccid dick shoots a shocking tingle up his spine.

Jaskier’s grip is firm but gentle. In the mounting darkness, he has to rely on touch to explore what his human eyes can no longer clearly see. Geralt can tell the moment Jaskier locates the additional erectile tissue at the base of his penis, zeroing in on it with inquisitive fingers and a concentrated look on his face.

It’s the same expression he wears when trying to figure out a particularly difficult rhyme and, surprisingly, that though is what finally eases the Witcher’s apprehension.

Under the thorough attention, Geralt’s cock naturally starts to chub up. Jaskier fucking  _ croons  _ when he notices, peering down like there’s a sleeping baby animal cradled in his palms and not the genitals of his travel companion. The Witcher growls at the sheer insolence of it, but his body betrays him and twitches eagerly into the bardlings touch. His dick starts filling properly, lengthening in hot pulses. Jaskier croons again.

“Shit, you’re a grower, aren’t you?” he gives the length a light stroke, pulling back the foreskin teasingly. Geralt steadfastly refuses to feel embarrassed about the bead of pre-come already glistening at the tip. The human before him smells and sounds, well, _happy_ , positively intrigued and not at all like he’d rather be somewhere else. That’s a first. It makes something hot and tight and unfamiliar twist in the Witcher’s belly.

“Can I touch some more? Is that okay?” Jaskier asks, a glimmer in his eyes. Geralt nods.

“Knock yourself out.”

“Mmh, fuck, I just might. Look at you! I can barely wrap my fingers around it anymore… and  _ oh _ ,” his hands have moved back down to the base, “is that the knot?”

Jaskier closes both hands around it, squeezes and Geralt can’t contain the groan ripping from his throat, toes-curling. “Ohh, you like that, don’t you?” The bard shuffles closer, now up on his knees as well, and the thick, musky scent of his arousal hits the Witcher’s sensitive nose like a sledgehammer. He breathes in, greedily, reeling at how the cloying pheromones light up his brain with spots of dancing colour.

A spurt of pre-come dribbles down his length and the bard gasps as it drips onto his wrist. Strong hands stroke upwards, the same blissful pressure that was on Geralt’s knot triggering another surge of fluid, bubbling to collect at the glistening tip.

“Sweet Meilitele, do you always get this wet?” The bardlings voice is little more than a breathless whisper.

Without waiting for an answer he pulls the soft, wrinkly foreskin down and rubs a thumb over the soaking crown, spreading wetness to the frenulum and then down the whole length of the blood-hot cock. Geralt’s whole body jerks, hips twitching and thrusting into the delicious sensations. He finally gives in to the impulse of grabbing for Jaskier, muffling a rumbling moan into the soft skin of the bard’s neck. His scent is even stronger there and Geralt is nearly mindless with it.

Nobody has ever touched him like this, so eagerly and without fear.

“Can I-” he places a single kiss on the straining muscle and Jaskier understands, tips his head to the side obligingly, “Fuck yeah, go on.”

For a while, Geralt is too preoccupied to think any more. He mouthes and licks and sucks at the exposed neck, throat and shoulder, dizzy with the blatant display of trust, biting down with a low groan when one of the bard’s wicked, wicked hands drops down to fondle his balls. Geralt can’t even begin to feel jealous of the man’s previous lovers when he’s so obviously the one reaping the benefits.

Attentive to every twitch and tremble of the Witcher’s body, Jaskier works out a near-perfect rhythm without instruction; slow, tight pulls to make Geralt’s legs quiver. Quick, fluttery twists at the head to make him keen. To say that the Witcher is  _ dripping  _ would be an understatement and normally he’d feel very awkward about it. About the slick, wet sounds filling the still evening air broadcasting how fucking  _ easy  _ the mighty White Wolf is for just a bit of gentle touch, but surely Jaskier would have none of his self-deprecation.

The bard is murmuring sweet praises into Geralt’s ear; how big and heavy he is, how  _ good  _ he feels. It answers the Witcher’s long-standing question if the musician is just as chatty in bed as out of it, but though Geralt had always imagined it to be irritating, he finds it quite thrilling instead. There’s no room for doubt when Jaskier’s voice fills his head with words of naked adoration.

With the human squirming and panting enticingly under Geralt’s roaming hands, the Witcher desperately wishes for  _ more _ , to undress, get rid of all those layers keeping skin from skin and see how far the night could take them -the bard has slightly different plans, however.

“Tell me what you need.” he whispers, hot breath sending delicious shivers down Geralt’s spine, “Tell me how to make you come. I wanna feel your knot, wanna see how big it gets.”

The words light up every inch of Geralt’s body, hips thrusting senselessly.  _ Yes, fuck yes… _

“Do you think I could take it? Hm? Think I could open myself up and let you inside?”

The idea of Jaskier sinking down on his knot is nearly enough to instantly send Geralt over the edge, yet with the last dregs of self-control, he manages to push the thought away. He mustn’t allow himself to even consider such a thing, lest he starts wanting it. Nevertheless, there’s a tightening in Geralt’s belly that signals his oncoming orgasm. More spurts of pre-come drip down the length of his pulsing cock, bathing Jaskier’s hands in slick.

“Fuck, you’re making such a mess... it’s so cute,” The bard is damn-near giggling but Geralt can’t find it within himself to take offence. Not when his face is being covered with feather-light kisses and his cock receives yet another delightful little tug.

“Come one, tell me.” Jaskier whispers, right against Geralt's lips, “Wanna see you lose it.”

Knowing that once he comes, relocating will be uncomfortable, Geralt gently dislodges Jaskiers hands (biting back a whine at the loss) and moves them out of their kneeling position. After kicking off his trousers, he sits back against the saddle which serves as a backrest when no convenient log can be found, then tentatively motions for Jaskier to join him. The bard does just that, immediately and eagerly, crawling into Geralt’s lap and getting comfortable between his legs. With his back to the fire, Jaskier’s face is in shadow but the Witcher’s enhanced eyes can see his dopey grin just fine. He also sees the obscene tent in the human’s breeches and reaches for it. Sticky hands stop him.

“Later.” Jaskier smiles and Geralt nods.

Roughly he takes his shirt off and spreads it on their laps under his cock. Jaskier’s gaze is questioning for only a moment before realization dawns in the form of a filthy fucking smirk that makes Geralt’s ears feel hot. Taking one of the bard’s hands, Geralt moves it down to the tissue of his knot and wraps it around the growing bulge. Already Jaskier has no chance of reaching all the way around it.

“Hold it tightly, squeeze every so often,” the Witcher instructs, gives in to the temptation of the bard’s bitten red lips for a chaste little kiss, “Keep stroking the rest of it. We’ll swap if you get tired.”

“Aye, aye sir.” A cheeky wink and another kiss, “I’ll do my very best.”

And he does. The impending orgasm had receded a little bit during their relocation but under the bard’s skilled hands Geralt is soon brought to the edge again. They’re kissing, open-mouthed and nasty, and it’s easy,  _ so fucking easy _ to let pleasure crest and wash over him. For the first time in his life, Geralt feels safe in the knowledge that his partner is not judging him, that he is  _ wanted  _ and cared for just as he is.

When the first wave crashes through him, Geralt snarls, muscles locking up in delicious convulsions that have his hips snap and flex uncontrollably, animal instinct trying vainly to shove himself further into the deliciously tight grip Jaskier has on him. The bardling yelps, nearly unseated by the shudders wracking the powerful body underneath him, but manages to hold on even so, locked into place by the Witcher’s strong arms.

Geralt’s growl pitches and breaks on the third contraction, delirious keens and whimpers tearing out of his throat instead. He’s panting, nosing senselessly into the safe, dark space under his beloved’s jaw and the scent he finds there sets off another full-body shudder.

For a while Geralt is  _ floating _ , only vaguely aware that he’s still coming, adding load after load of thick sticky come to the mess in their laps, and Jaskier is still holding him, teasing the swollen red head of his dick until Geralt squirms mindlessly at the overstimulation. Maybe he should have warned Jaskier about that. That his orgasm wasn’t just  _ one  _ but more like a dozen, a slowly calming storm instead of a strike of lighting as others would describe.

As the waves are becoming more and more spaced out, sensation returns. Jaskier is whispering again; soothing nothings and filthy praise spilling out of his mouth like spring water. He’s also squirming, hips twitching thoughtlessly to rub his needy little cock against the meat of Geralt’s thigh. Maybe he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

The Witcher might still be rather out of it, but his fingers find their destination all the same. Pushing aside the soaked material of his shirt he goes for the minstrel’s drawstrings, trusting him to give Geralt some sort of sign if the touch is not wanted. He’s never had another man’s cock in hand before and spares a thought for the idea that he might be shit at it, that maybe he should ask how Jaskier likes it, but as soon as his fingers wrap around the bard’s length it’s already over.

More hot come spills between them and Jaskier is moaning and mewling between bouts of breathless laughter, giggling at how messy they are. It’s just about the last sound Geralt would have ever associated with sex but now he hears and his heart swells with the joy in it. Jaskier nudges him and gets a mouthful of hair for his efforts until Geralt understands the intent and they’re kissing again; teeth clicking and noses bumping and nothing has ever been as perfect.

They do have to switch hands eventually because Jaskier complains about cramping. It’s been at least 15 minutes and there’s no sign of the knot going down. But that’s okay. When Geralt tries to apologize, tries to tell him that he’d understand if Jaskier would rather do something other than wait for, well, Geralt to be done, the bard just huffs and glares and tells him to shut up.

They’re lying down now, kissing languidly, and after a little bit of cleaning up, Jaskier has started stroking aimless patterns over his Witcher’s bare chest and belly. It’s very pleasant. Geralt hums happily as his muscles clench and relax with another dribble of come. The waves are a minute or so apart now. At this rate, they’ll be setting a new record... He says as much and Jaskier looks at him curiously.

“A new record?”

“Hmhm… never went longer than 20 minutes before. It should already be softening. I- thank you.”

“Thank  _ me _ ?” Jaskier raises an elegant eyebrow, “This was quite a mutual enjoyment.”

“No, I mean…” Geralt grasps for the right words, “How long it lasts. It depends on who I’m with. If they like it or not and you- no one has ever been so… patient before.”

He’s embarrassed to admit as much, lying next to a man who, as he said himself, thinks life is too short for bad sex. And though this was probably okay for Jaskier, as far as new experiences went, Geralt can’t help but worry. He does not want this to be the only time they get together. But even as he wants, no,  _ needs _ , to communicate his gratefulness to the bard, he’s afraid that admitting to his lousy track-record will not help to make him eligible for further consideration.

“Well,  _ fuck those people. _ ” Jaskier growls but softens immediately when he sees Geralt’s discomfort.

“Seriously, they don’t know what they’re missing out on.” Idly, he twirls some of the tangled white hair around his fingers. “I, for one, would  _ love  _ to partake in some… further exploration of that little accessory of yours.”

At Geralt’s dubious look, he continues, “I mean it! If you hadn’t noticed, which I suppose you didn’t, now that I think about it, suggesting a threesome was merely one idea in a long line of increasingly  _ desperate  _ attempts to get into your pants. Not my finest moments. The knot was an unexpected development, granted, but  _ definitely  _ counts as a bonus. It’s  _ really fucking hot _ , just like rest of you, darling.”

“It’s not normal.”

“ _ Duh _ , and water is wet. But think of it this way: If I wanted normal I’d be back in my house in Oxenfurt and not camping in the middle of a swamp.”

After a moment to let the thought sink in, Jaskier continues, “ _ I want you. _ Just as you are. And if you liked what we just did then you should know that there’s _ a lot  _ more where that came from, yeah? -also, I wasn’t joking about wanting to see if I could fit all of that,” he pats at where Geralt is still putting pressure on his knot, “inside of me.”

The Witcher snorts, closes his eyes and whines softly as pleasure flows and ebbs.

“I’d split you open.”

“Mmmh, not with the right preparation. I happen to know a vendor in Vizima who sells a  _ very  _ potent slick. With a bottle of that, you could squeeze a dragon through a rabbit hole.”

“Hm.”

“But that’s an idea for later of course. Wanna switch hands again? And how do you feel about getting a mouth on your dick? It must be awfully chilly, the poor thing...”

**Author's Note:**

> I think dicks are kinda cute, could you tell? :(
> 
> There's already a spiritual successor to this that features #Milking that Imma polish up and add to the series... and ofc Jaskier is gonna wanna hop on the knot eventually so stay tuned! *eyes emoji*
> 
> Scream at me on [Tumblr](https://goldandlights.tumblr.com/)


End file.
